


Of Dreams

by Ariaofthewinds



Category: Labyrinth (1986)
Genre: Canon Continuation, Child Neglect, Deerskin, F/F, F/M, Fairy Godmothers, Fairy Tale Retellings, Fairy Tales, In which Sarah Williams Sets Out On An Adventure, Jareth is Jareth, Sarah is Sarah, Sarah's family is Sarah's Family, happy endings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-08
Updated: 2016-09-08
Packaged: 2018-08-13 22:22:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7988224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ariaofthewinds/pseuds/Ariaofthewinds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As a child, Sarah Williams lived in dreams. But as she grows older, her dreams change and grow, and she grows with them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Dreams

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kollapsar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kollapsar/gifts).



> To Reid, who encouraged me to actually publish this.

As a child, Sarah Williams lived in dreams. Knights answered to her and princesses curtseyed to her. She wielded a sword in one hand and a book in the other, and no evil dragon was safe from her. The good dragons were, for they were good and everyone who was good was Sarah’s friend. Each hillock was a mountain, each rivulet a massive river. The world bent to her dreams, served up stories and quests and escapes. 

Sarah Williams is ten years old when reality pulls her out of dreams. There is no time for dreams when your mother leaves. Her father tells Sarah that her mother died, but he can’t hide the truth for long. Especially when the truth involves a movie star. There comes a day when her mother is on television, in a movie Sarah has never seen and that the station proclaims to be a new release. The lie unravels after that. 

It’s hard to believe you’re a princess when your mother runs away from you, but Sarah Williams tries. She wears gowns and weaves flower crowns and runs about the park as her father works and works and works. Sarah crowns herself and plays with herself. In her kingdom of dreams, her mother lives with them still, her father doesn’t work all day, and Sarah smiles.

Her father brings home a woman when Sarah is twelve, a sad faced blonde who Sarah remembers is her father’s secretary. He tells Sarah that this woman is going to be Sarah’s  mom. 

Sarah doesn’t understand; how can this woman be her mom? Sarah already has a mom. Her mother doesn’t live with them, but she’s still alive. Her mother is still  _ here _ . 

It is what it is, her father says, and the not-mom moves in with them. She does mom things, like bakes cookies and hugs Sarah and tells Sarah that she loves her. She makes Sarah’s father happy. Sarah’s grandparents tell her that’s what matters, that her father is happy. Sarah ought to be happy, they tell her, but Sarah is only happy when she’s dreaming. Reality twists and turns like a river eddying around Sarah’s knees and it takes all of Sarah’s strength to not be dragged under and drown. 

Whispers start soon after her father’s grins multiple. Sarah’s grandmother whispers to her grandfather one day: “Karen’s pregnant.” 

Sarah is thirteen. Sarah knows what pregnant means now. They learned about that in school, in the back room of the gym where Mr. Hollins pulled at his turtleneck while explaining about birds and bees and boys and girls. It means there’s a baby growing in her not-mom’s womb. It means Sarah will be a big sister. 

Sarah is not ready to be a big sister.

Her not-mom’s stomach swells like a fetid corpse until the child pops out one fall day, when the dead leaves pile high beneath silent trees. Sarah isn’t present for the birth. She comes home from school one day to an empty house and makes herself dinner. Her parents return two days later, a lump held in her father’s arms. 

He beams as he informs Sarah that this is her new brother, and Sarah stares down at the wispy blond hair and blue eyes. Her new brother looks like a premature Prince Charming. 

He’s closer to Prince Charmless. 

This is what Sarah decides after a week. Babies have two modes: crying and sleeping. Toby switches between the two so fast that Sarah gets whiplash when she has to deal with him. She deals with him often. Her father and not-mom have responsibilities, and Sarah must earn her keep. After all, she can’t live in dreams forever, according to them. Sarah makes food for her father and not-mom and learns how to change diapers. She cleans the house when her father tells her to, and takes care of her brother when her parents sleep. Her grades dip at first, but Sarah pulls them back up. 

The B’s aren’t worth the lectures she’ll get from her father when he finds out about them. 

Sarah’s dreams linger in the crevasses of her soul, fermenting like overripe grapes. Sometimes, she sneaks out to the park and loses herself in them. The sword her mind conjures is longer, her words stronger, but they disappear when she returns home. At home, Sarah must think of her father and her not-mom and Toby. Her parents say she dreams too much, that she must be responsible and think of Toby, that she must be a good big sister. 

Sarah is not a good big sister. She is a fifteen year old, on the cusp of being something more. She wants her dreams; in her dreams she has power. In her dreams, she can be anyone. In her dreams…

Sarah Williams lives her dreams at age fifteen, and she doesn’t know if they are dreams or nightmares. The Labyrinth is nothing like her book, and everything like her book. There are trials, travails, terrors. She makes friends: with a dwarf, with a knight, with a stonecaller. 

She falls in love. 

Sarah Williams stands at the precipice of her life, stares into the abyss before her, and chooses Toby. She brings down a king, leaves him her own heart, and steps back into the waking world. 

Her dreams return with her.  Now when she runs in the park, she does not run alone. Hoggle and Ludo and Didymus run with her. Sarah takes care of her brother, listens to her not-mom, and obeys her father. She goes to school. 

School is different after the Labyrinth. The walls close in on her, the teachers small. Focus is impossible; how can Sarah learn about Pythagoras when she remembers hands that moved on their own, of odiferous bogs, of a king who could make the world fall down? 

In the end, it is a political science teacher who pulls Sarah together. The woman is mousey, with a thin face and eyes magnified three times their size by glasses, and she pulls Sarah aside after class and presses a book into her hands. It is the sort of book that could kill a man if it were absently dropped on his head, bound in red leather just like  _ Labyrinth _ . It speaks of the duties of kings, of queens, of princesses.  _ Noblesse oblige _ and how to manage a kingdom’s financials, how to deal with equals and lessers and greaters. How to survive when the world stands against you. 

For the first time, Sarah Williams wonders how He ran his kingdom, if the Labyrinth is the only kingdom below, or just the only one she saw. Curiosity ignites in her breast, and Sarah returns to her teacher with questions about kingdoms and Kings.   
Her teacher smiles, and answers.

Forever isn’t that long after all, and Sarah grows older. Her first blood comes and goes, body curving, and one morning Sarah looks into her mirror and sees not a girl, but a woman. In that moment, her world shifts, as much as it did one stormy night. 

High school ends for everyone, even the dreamers. Her peers apply for colleges, jobs. Sarah goes through the motions. A few applications are sent out to affordable colleges. She meets with the guidance counselor. She spends afternoons meeting with her political science teacher after school, talking about government and politics and how to discern a good strategy from a bad one. 

Toby is four now, and he has moved beyond Sarah. He runs with his friends from preschool and bats around his baseball. Her father and not-mom take him to games and movies, and if Sarah is left behind, she does not mind. The world itches her. Electronics itch at her, warbling under her finger tips, lights flickering. 

Peach juice dribbles on her tongue, even though Sarah has not eaten peaches in years. 

The first letter comes on a sunny February day. The letter wishes her the best of luck, but this valued institution has decided she is not who they are looking for in a student. The other letters trickle in over the coming weeks. All are rejections. Sarah knows better than to hide the letters. Her father panics, or would have if he noticed. The waking day consumes him: work, not-mom, Toby. Baseball games and dinners. He and not-mom orbit each other like binary stars, and there is no space for Sarah in the family they are building. 

Sarah turns eighteen two weeks before she graduates and she slips out of the house early that morning for the last time. The last night had been spent talking with her friends through the mirror, curling up to sleep between Ludo’s giant side and Ambrosius, Merlin at her feet and Sir Didymus commandeering her spare pillow. 

Hoggle stands watch, and won’t get into bed. He won’t tell her why, but he bobs his head and glances out the window, checking for a man neither he or Sarah will name. Not aloud at least. 

They are gone in the morning, as they always are, and so are Sarah’s father, not-mom, and brother. Only Merlin is with her, hips groaning with every step he takes. Sarah makes herself breakfast and pets Merlin, letting the weight that sits on her heart flow through her. Something is coming to an end; Sarah feels it in the creaks of the house, in the groans of her sundered heart. 

She dumps her school books and school notes out of her backpack and onto her bed. The first school bell rings in the distance as she packs granola bars and water bottles into her bag, followed by comfortable clothing and some rope. The items pile in, until the pack is heavy but comfortable to carry.  _ Labyrinth _ is nestled on top, just above the book on politics, next to a book of fairy tales, and Sarah nestles her picture of Hoggle, Ludo, and Sir Didymus betwixt the cover and title page of the little red book. Tucked into the side pocket is a compact, the mirror polished to a sunbright sheen. Sarah will not travel alone; her friends will come when she calls, like they always do. 

Sarah finds her most comfortable jeans and the poet shirt she wore so long ago. It’s tighter in some areas, but fits just as well as it used to; Sarah did not grow in height. The vest with its silver sworls clings, dripping over her chest. There’s no chance of closing it anymore, but Sarah doesn’t need it to. Every knight needs her armor, and her vest is her breastplate. 

The backpack settles easily on her shoulders and Sarah spares one last look for her room. Not much has changed since her trip to the Labyrinth. The Escher poster hangs on the wall, her vanity sits against the wall. Objects have come and go, and it strikes Sarah that it’s finally time for Sarah herself to go.

Merlin cries at the door. He’s an old dog now, and they both know he can’t come with. Not where Sarah’s going. Sarah almost stops there, her arms around Merlin’s shoulders, her face buried into the shaggy fur. But the clock chimes, and Sarah rises. “Goodbye, Merlin,” she says as she stands upon the threshold, staring into the morning sun. 

The world glows golden before her. Flowers spill out from their beds, the grass a blanket of green, the sidewalk a lone river, twisting and turning. Sarah shuts the door behind her and locks it. 

She walks. 

The park is not far from her house, not in the grand scheme of things. Everyone is gone: to school, to work, to other places. The path is empty of all but birdsong, and Sarah hums along as she skips. Owls dance in her head, whirling gracefully through the night air; she does not protest the company. 

Her meadow is smaller than she remembers, though no less fey. The stones of the bridge clatter beneath her feet as she crosses, and the grass brushes the hems of her jeans as she walks past the lake. A swan bows its head to Sarah as she passes; Sarah bows her head back. 

She doesn’t know what she is looking for. There is the meadow where she practiced her lines so long ago, there is the pond beach where she sat writing in her journal. The bridge behind her creaks, and the bridge before her quakes. Sarah turns in a circle, until her eyes alight upon the tree. 

The tree stands tall, proud and ancient. Her mother told her the tree grew long before the town ever existed and that it would grow long after the town disappeared. Acorns litter the ground beneath the bows, and bark grows rough. Birds sit between oak leaves, and squirrels run up and down and up again. Sarah smiles, and her eyes dip to the ground before the tree.

Mushrooms squat around the tree. The dew clings to their caps in spite of the encroaching sun and no insect or animal has touched them. No circle could be truer, no circle rounder, no circle realer. Sarah smiles to herself and shifts her bag on her back. She takes a deep breath, closes her eyes, and steps into the circle.

For the space between heartbeats, Sarah tastes peach on her tongue, thick liquid dribbling down her throat. Then it’s gone, replaced by nothing and everything, darkness and light.

When she opens her eyes again, fields of grain stretch before her beneath a red gold sky. There is no sign of the labyrinth’s walls, no far off castle in the distance. Instead, Sarah sees a town built from bricks and arranged like spires, and she sets off on her next adventure.

 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------   

 

Sarah does not end up in the Labyrinth. The town of Eir has many things, including a small band of animals that play at the tavern every night, but it does not have a king at the center of a castle ruling over a vast Labyrinth. Instead, the king lives in a palace half an hour away by walking, with a single son who won’t marry. Eir also has a ball coming up, and a girl with two stepsisters who works as a servant in her own home. 

Sarah meets the girl when she arrives, nearly tripping over said girl as she pulls carrots up out of the earth. The girl squeaks and Sarah smiles, and things happen. If a girl goes to the ball in a coach when before she would have stayed home and cried in the cinders, well, Sarah claims no credit for helping. All Sarah does is cheer the girl on and talk the neighbor into lending a ride. Ella is the first elf Sarah meets since her trip through the Labyrinth, the first elf Sarah helps since her arrival Below, but Ella is no where near the last. 

The world below echoes the world above, dipped in dreams and drabbles. Everything is a story; nothing is a story. Sarah picks herself up and walks, into one town, out of one town, into one story, out of one story. Some bear recognizable threads: Ella and her cinders, Talisa and her eternal sleep, Amaranthe and her spinning straw into gold. Others don’t: Henry and his broken fiddle, Martain and his silver fox, Terrance and his ruby ring. Sarah slinks in and out, helps as she wills, and moves on before the celebrations start.

The celebrations bring royalty and the royalty could bring Him. Sarah isn’t ready for Him. Not yet. It’s not time yet.

Time flows on. Sarah keeps track in a little notebook, marking off days, then months, then years. She walks through lands where the sun never rises and lands where the sun never sets. She drinks under golden moons and sleeps under silver suns. Sarah lives and laughs and learns, and never forgets her friends. Their calls are less frequent, for the compact isn’t as strong as the vanity mirror, and sometimes the message is lost for a day or two. But the signal gets through eventually, and she laughs and cries with Hoggle, Ludo, and Sir Didymus. They ask her when she will visit.

Sarah doesn’t know. “Eventually,” she says, the feel of peach fuzz on her lips floating out of her memory and into contemporary. The time isn’t right yet. Sarah licks at her lips, unchanged since she arrived here, and moves on. 

When Sarah is twenty eight years old, when thirteen years have passed since she ran the labyrinth, she arrives at the castle. It is not His castle, but it is grand in its own way, ripped straight from a tale of princesses and kings. Turrets and spires are capped by uncountable pennants, all fluttering in the wind, all bearing different sigils and standards. Some animals Sarah recognizes; others she doesn’t. There are no words for the multitude. 

The courtyards and pathways bustle with life. Tall elves, short brownies. Scampering mice and stoic nightingales. There is more life here than in the oceans Above, and Sarah drowns in the tides. Sarah stands at the edge of the castle proper, resting in the shade of a hedge maze to catch her breath, when she realizes that she is not standing alone. She turns to her newest companion. 

“Hello,” she says to the mass of furs. “Are you traveling too?” 

The figure nods, and in a voice that contradicts the patchwork of furs by being more melodic than the nightingales that populate the maze, speaks. “I am.” 

Sarah smiles and holds out her hand. “Same. I’m Sarah.” 

“Eloise, called Manyfur.” She tilts her head at Sarah’s hand and slowly takes it.

Slender bones sit between Sarah’s fingers and the fur collapses as Sarah shakes Eloise’s hand. Sarah’s mind whirls, thoughts clicking together about Eloise. “What brings you here?” 

“A job hunt,” Eloise replies, and Sarah smiles brightly enough to rival the stars. 

They get jobs in the kitchens. In a few weeks, there will be a celebration for midsummer, and all the kingdoms are in a flutter. With her soot smudged face and crude dress, no one will recognize Sarah, or so she tells herself. Her white vest and shirt are neatly folded in the drawers in the room she shares with Eloise, and the severe brown dress that the kitchens gave Sarah does her form no favors. No one will know who she is, she repeats in her mind, over and over until she almost can believe it. Sarah licks phantom peach flesh from her teeth; something is coming to a head. As much as she hates celebrations, this one feels like one she needs to attend, even if she attends as a mere scullery maid. 

Sarah scrubs pots, pans, plates, practically everything and anything that is used in the kitchen. Eloise cooks: soups, sweets, sauces, anything and everything the head cook demands of her. They form an odd pair: Sarah, small and sassy, and Eloise, quiescent and quiet, but they work. When the head cook harasses Eloise, Sarah bites. When Sarah antagonizes the head cook, Eloise mediates. The days pass, and the girls grow closer. 

It is two weeks before the start of the celebration that Sarah sees Eloise without her coat of many furs, and Sarah is not surprised when a thin elf emerges, all doe eyes and soft smiles. Eloise illuminates the room with her blonde hair and brown skin, and Sarah knows that something terrible must have happened to make Eloise dress in a coat of many furs. 

Sarah doesn’t ask; she waits. It is an agreement unspoken between them. Sarah does not ask about the walnut or the fur coat or the sobs at night. Eloise does not question the books, the bag, or the calls Sarah makes to her friends. They live together and work together and tell stories together. 

The stories begin one night, when Eloise asks if Sarah believes in the Star Lady. 

“Who?” Sarah asks and does not laugh, for Sarah is a dreamer. Anything and anyone is possible in dreams.

“Well,” Eloise begins, plucking at her bedspread with her fingertips. “She grants wishes. Like the Goblin King.” 

Sarah forces herself to remain still at His title, to gently place her book down on her breast bone and merely tilt her head. “Wishes?” 

“Yes! Wishes! Queen Ella of Eir said that the Star Lady came to her while she was being tormented by her stepfamily, and swept her off to a ball, and Martain of the March Marshes said that she guided him through the terrible battle against the ogres and helped him to find his husband who was cursed to be a silver fox!” Eloise sighs, a heavy sigh suited more for a funeral than for a tale between friends. “I wish I could meet her, for she must be a Fae Lady of great power.” 

“Perhaps she’s just someone who likes to help.” Indecision tears through Sarah; should she laugh at the suggestion that she is a Fae Lady? Sarah is no one. There has been no sweeping away, no guiding of anyone. All Sarah gave was common sense advice and no great help. She is a dreamer without a heart, given away to a man who no doubt hated her or at the very least had forgotten her. 

After all, thirteen years have passed. Why cause would He have to remember her? 

Eloise’s chortles draw Sarah back to the present. “An ordinary lady could not do what the Star Lady has! She saves kingdoms and brings true love, clad in white and stars and stardust…” 

Sarah smiles to hide her confusion and awkwardness. “You make her sound perfect.” 

“She is! I wish I could meet her…” 

“I hope she lives up to your expectations when you do meet her then,” Sarah says, watching as Eloise’s furs shift, and thinks of the woman hiding beneath them. 

“I don’t think I’ll ever meet her; I’m not important enough…”

“That’s a lie!” Sarah jerks up, rolling off her bed. “I bet this Star Lord...” 

“Star Lady,” Eloise corrects and Sarah rolls her eyes. 

“Star Lady would help you, when you need it. All things in their time.” 

“I…” Eloise wrings her hands, and Sarah grabs them, feeling through the inches of fur to squeeze the hands hidden beneath. 

“She will. I don’t know if she’s as grand as you think, but she will.” Sarah grins until Eloise nods shakily. Only then does she release Eloise’s hands and flops back on her bed. “Now how about I tell you a story?” 

The night goes on, the nights go on, and Eloise tells Sarah more about the Star Lady every night. It’s almost disturbing to hear one’s life story told as a series of tales. It’s almost disturbing to realize that one has become a Faerie Godmother in all but name. It’s almost disturbing to lie to Eloise about it. But Sarah has no desire for notoriety and no desire to change her relationship with Eloise, so she doesn’t correct Eloise.

Besides, Eloise needs the tales. Sarah recognizes herself in her friend, the desperate dreaming for something else, something better. Something that is anything but reality. At the very least, Eloise doesn’t have a sibling to wish away. Sarah doesn’t have to worry about His Highness popping out of nowhere. At least, not until the ball.

The cook tells them that everyone who is anyone will be at the ball. Three days of feasting, three nights of dancing, seventy two hours of riotous partying. It’s the reason Sarah and Eloise were hired; the sheer amount of food requires more hands to prepare everything than the staff normally keeps. The work hours grow longer as the date comes closer, and the closer the festival comes,  the more sighs Eloise makes. Sarah watches out of the corner of her eye, tongue between her teeth as she thinks. 

“Do you want to go?” Sarah asks as she carries pots to the sink and begins to scrub. Eloise jumps and almost drops her batter. The cloak of many furs trembles and shakes, but she doesn’t say no. 

Sarah begins to plan. “Do you have dresses?” she asks the next day, while Eloise stirs the soup. 

Eloise nods.

“Do you have shoes? Accessories?” she asks while they take out the kitchen scraps the day after. 

Eloise nods.

“Do you have someone to help you get dressed?” She asks four nights before the festival starts. 

Eloise pauses and the world dries up in the space of her contemplation. Sarah waits, changes into her nightgown as Eloise thinks upon her bed. 

“No.” The word is barely audible above the panicked beating of Eloise’s heart. 

Sarah smiles softly. “I will help you.” 

Eloise gasps, protests, but Sarah waves all protests off. By the time, Eloise is asleep, Sarah is far too awake, thinking of a different ball, thirteen years ago. She will not dance at this ball, but she remembers the crystal ball and a pair of warm arms with all the fondness in her sharded heart. Such a memory is impossible to forget, and even if Sarah could, she would not.

The compact shines when Sarah wakes in the morning, Hoggle’s face obscuring Sarah’s reflection. Eloise is long gone; the soup requires tending, and thus Sarah alone hears the warning Hoggle brings. 

The Goblin King will be attending the ceremonies at Caer Broch. 

Jareth will be here. 

The hair on Sarah’s arms rises, prickles, and the smell of peaches pervades her nose. Thirteen years, thirteen hours, thirteen, thirteen, thirteen…

She shakes her head and finishes dressing. Eloise is priority now. Jareth will be as Jareth will be, and Sarah will…

Sarah will manage. Somehow. She ignores the way her heart skitters and goes to work. 

More guests arrive each day, the castle and the grounds filling up like a pool after spring rains. The demands of the kitchen grow. Sarah finishes one task and three more appear, a veritable hydra of kitchen chores. Eloise fares no better; she cooks and cooks, and there is never enough food. The elf looks over at Sarah; if they are this busy during the days leading up to the festival, how will Eloise ever get away during the festival? 

Sarah smiles with more confidence than she possesses. Things will work out. Life isn’t fair, but it falls to people to make the world fairer. And in the end, Sarah will do her damndest to get Eloise to the ball.

After all, Sarah made a promise. 

He arrives the night before the festivities starts. Eloise doesn’t know, nor does the cook. No one in the kitchens realizes who arrives besides Sarah, for she can smell peaches and stardust and him. Her breath catches in her throat. Sarah stills until the cook yells, and then she throws herself into her duties. There is no reason to panic; she knew he was coming 

They rise early the next day. Eloise’s hands shake as they stir and the cook snaps. Sarah snarls right back. The cook directs her ire unto Sarah, leaving Eloise in peace. All is well. Sarah and Eloise work through the day, cooking, cleaning, craving, while music and laughter ring out above, the clink of silver knives and forks echoing throughout the castle of the High King of the Fae. 

The cook staff are given breaks; Sarah stops Eloise from taking every break offered until the evening, and the pair works ceaselessly. Only once the clinking stops and the violins crescendo, does Sarah approach the cook.

“May we take our break now?” Sarah asks, meeting the cook’s eyes. The cook tries to look away, to stare elsewhere, but Sarah follows, smiling as sweetly as she can. 

“Fine! You two have been working all day, but!” The cook grimaces. “If you aren’t back before twelve o’clock, you’ll be on cleaning duty all night.” 

“Of course,” Sarah curtseys and turns, grabbing Eloise on the way out. They walk to the door and run through the halls, giggling to each other as they do. It takes no time to reach their room with the lower halls emptied. The servants are working, the nobility celebrating, and no one left pays attention to two girls. 

Sarah locks the door behind them when they reach the room, and Eloise shucks off her coat, passing it to Sarah even as she reaches for the walnut she keeps on the table. Sarah folds the cloak and places it on Elise’s bed. A flash of gold catches her eye, and Sarah turns. 

Her mouth drops open at the dress Eloise holds. Silk and taffeta rains over Eloise’s arms, a dress the color of the sun held carefully, lovingly, like the last good memory of a fair summer’s day. Sarah closes her mouth with a click and shakes herself. “Well, let’s get you into that.” 

It takes a few minutes to get Eloise into the dress with all the petticoats and the built in corset to deal with. But Sarah ran the Labyrinth in ten hours, and if there’s anything that she can do well, it’s manage time. Sarah laces Eloise into the dress, tweaks the bodice until the sweetheart neckline falls just right, and moves onto Eloise’s hair. She’s no hairdresser, but she does her best to braid and pin the locks up, letting just the right amount tumble down Eloise’s back. The make up goes faster; Sarah bartered with a lesser noble for the kit, and she uses it sparingly on Eloise’s face. 

The elf doesn’t really need it. With her smooth brown skin and dark brown eyes, Eloise could charm the dead back to life. Still, Sarah adds golds and yellows to compliment the dress, and steps back with a nod as Eloise pulls on her gloves. “Well?” Eloise asks, her voice shaking.

“You are going to have to beat people away with a stick,” Sarah declares, cleaning up the kit and returning the small box to its hiding spot beneath Eloise’s bed. “Go get ‘em tiger.” 

Eloise blinks and then laughs. “Oh Sarah, you use such odd words!” 

Sarah shrugs. “They’re not odd to me. But that’s not important! Time is ticking! Go!” She pushes at Eloise, who grins and grins, and takes off, skirts held high in her hands. 

“Thank you!” she calls back to Sarah, “Thank you so much! I’ll be back at quarter til, to take the dress off!” 

Sarah watches as Eloise disappears, and pivots on her foot to head in the exact opposite direction of Eloise. The servant’s stair is hidden in the back of the palace, and Sarah uses it to ascend to the third floor. The others don’t pay attention to her; they focus on their tasks, and Sarah passes through like a ghost. She never visited the ballroom before last week, and even then she only explored the balconies. It took her the better part of an hour to determine the most hidden balcony, one tucked away in a corner of the upper ballroom, where the shadows converge. It is only accessible by a ladder, and the dust piled so thick Sarah suspected it was forgotten about. 

This is the room she clambers into five minutes after Eloise leaves, settling into the small settee that is more a memory of a settee than a functional settee. Sarah waits. Two storeys below her, the ballroom is a riot of color and form, with trolls and elves, brownies and gnomes all dancing. Summer smells rise from the masses: fresh cut grass and slick sweat, innumerable flowers, and over and under everything else, a trace of peaches. Sarah doesn’t follow that scent. Not yet; there is someone else to check on first.

The royal family sits at a dais at the front of the room. The high king perches solemn and stiff on his chair of vines, his queen laughing beside him at whatever he just muttered under his breath. Their oldest son, with silver hair and solemn matched eyes, pays attention to his wife alone, his hand hovering over the swell of her belly. Of their middle son, Sarah knows not. His chair is abandoned on the dais, a low thing made more for slouching than sitting. He has been mentioned, but only in passing and in whispers. Troublemaker, she hears when the others speak with the cook, uncontrollable. Nothing more has been muttered, though mentions of him increase as the festival drew near. His name is never uttered. Sarah doesn’t care to learn more about him either. He’s not who she’s looking for 

Her attention focuses the youngest of the High King’s children, a fair haired woman with eyes wide enough to catch the sky in, in a dress the color of blood. She does not sit on the dais, she does not speak with her family. No, this woman dances with a familiar figure in a dress of sunlight, and Sarah smiles. The world clicks into rightness as the pair dances, the rest of the mob parting and giving them a berth so the dancers may be lost in each other without fear of interference. 

Eloise grins so wide that Sarah cannot believe it is her friend, though Sarah knows it is by form and by dress. Sarah’s fingers knit together and she allows herself a moment of happiness for her friend’s joy. If there is anyone who deserves happiness, it is Eloise. Sarah will not spoil it by thinking of another dance, one both far more joyous and far more cruel than this waltz. 

Her nose wrinkles, and Sarah inhales. 

Peaches overwhelm her, and her gaze drifts to the southern end of the ballroom. Even though this is not his court, Jareth is surrounded by men and women, creatures and spirits. His stretched grin holds sway, over them and over Sarah’s heart, the little he left her with, which contracts when he looks around. 

Sarah shifts and sniffs once more, drowning in peach scent and Labyrinth magic, and she holds a hand to her empty breast to hold the spike of agony in. Thirteen years, it has been thirteen years since she ran the Labyrinth, and he still hurts. A part of her wants to be angry, a part of her wants to be sad. Sarah settles on admiring the man she hasn’t seen in years. 

Jareth has not changed. His hair grows wild, wilder, mismatched eyes gleaming in the candlelight as he sips his champagne. His pants are still too tight and his shirt exposes far more of his chest than Sarah feels comfortable thinking about. He doesn’t dance; the others dance around him, a hurricane whirl with Jareth as the eye of the storm. 

Does he remember her, Sarah wonders. She feels his arms around her, remembers the flow of her skirts about her legs as he whirled her through that ballroom, the one that is so close to and yet so far from the room she looks over now. She hears his words from their last confrontation, his last plea: “Fear me, love me, do as I say, and I shall be your slave”. Her throat constricts as her own words rise in her mind.

She sees the rise and fall of the crystal, the last terrible chimes. 

Her breath is ragged, and Sarah cannot stay. She staggers to her feet and spares one last glance for Eloise. Her friend is lost to the golden haired princess, and Sarah is glad, has to be glad that someone here will have a happy ending. 

_ You could make your own _ Sarah’s mind whispers to her as she climbs down the ladder.  _ Go out there and say hello _ . _ What’s the worst he could do? _

Sarah’s hands run over the coarse brown skirt, plucks at the calluses on her hands, at the scars she’s accumulated over the years of travel. It’s not the right time, she tells herself. It’s not. She jumps down the last few rungs, and lands on something soft.

The goblin grunts beneath her as Sarah scrambles free, scrabbles at the walls. She doesn’t look back, she doesn’t dare face the small creature who screams “Rude!” at her backside. Sarah runs to the end of the hallway and turns, her tell tale hair streaming behind her. She can’t help herself; she looks back.

The screams change. “LADY. KINGY IT’S THE LADY.” 

Sarah flees fast enough to leave afterimages, ducking and zigging until she’s firmly in the servants quarters, ensconced in her room and under her bed. The world roils, peaches burning in her nostrils as the room twists and turns. She can feel his ire, can taste his anger in the blood that pours from her bitten tongue, and Sarah falls into herself. 

Is he that angry that she is here? Tears come in spite of herself, and just as quickly Sarah shakes herself free. He will not make her cry; He has no power over her. No power except that which Sarah gives him. 

Instead, she pulls herself free and shakes herself out. Her fingers serve as a brush and detangle her hair, all while Sarah breathes in and out and tries to ignore the scent of peaches. It’s a mercy when Eloise returns, floating on air. 

“I danced with the most beautiful woman,” she sighs as Sarah undoes the laces of her dress. “We danced all evening.” 

“I’m glad.” The peach scent is muted now, but the burnt smell lingers. “Did you get her name?” 

“No…” Eloise slumps and the dress slides down her shoulders. Sarah helps her to step out of the dress and Eloise shakes her hair free as she perks up. “But there’s always tomorrow.” 

“Yes, there is,” Sarah agrees, and the girls return to being ordinary scullery maids. 

They are on time as they return to the kitchens, and the cook is nowhere to be seen. The pair shrug at each other and melt into the sea of workers. Sarah doesn’t find out why the cook disappears until the next day, when the head cook complains to her wife. 

“Damn idiot asking around about a new hire. I know the peacock hasn’t been here for the past twenty years, but you’d think he’d remember how many new hires there are around this time. Danu help me.” The cook slams a knife into the block and shakes her head. “I knew it was going to be a bad year when he showed up. Didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I?” 

“You did,”  The head pastry chef pats her wife’s arm and finishes icing a cupcake. “He’s only here for a few more days.”

“I can’t put up with him. All those goblins running around and him stalking around like a wet grimalkin. Danu help that chit he’s fallen for. She’s going to need all the help she can get.” The cook glares at the meat she’s carving. “I’m going to need all the help I can get.” 

“Don’t worry dear, I’ve stocked up on wine and ale so we can drink ourselves senseless when it’s all over.” The pastry chef clucks and the cook spares her a soft look before the irritation returns.

“Thank Danu,” The cook grumbles and moves out of earshot. Sarah files the conversation away in her head for later. The cook doesn’t protest when Sarah and Eloise ask for their break at the end, and only shakes her head. “They won’t notice you,” she tells the pair. “We’re invisible to the nobility. Well, most of them, at least.” 

Sarah tries to not flinch.

This night, the dress is the soft ivory of the moon, all tulle and silk and delicate lace. Sarah weaves flowers into Eloise’s hair and refuses to tell her friend where she got them. A girl has to have some secrets, after all. Eloise runs to the ball even faster this night and Sarah follows at an easy pace behind.

Sarah doesn’t dare return to her hiding spot. Jareth will have set look outs, and Sarah has no desire to make this easy for him. The food corridor bustles, waiters going in and out, but no one notices Sarah taking a position in the crevasse near the door, watching as Eloise curtseys to the princess and the princess curtseys back. 

They dance. It is, Sarah admits, rather boring. A ball, a dance, falling in love. The way their eyes shine betrays them to Sarah; she recognizes the look from her own mirror, when her thoughts stray to the Goblin King. But he is angry at her, the scent of burnt peaches strong in her memory, and there is no place for Sarah’s love. Her eyes scan over the heads, searching, searching.   
Jareth wears black tonight. It is not his armor, but it is as close to it as formal clothing can be. The world falls down around him, but no one notices. They laugh and smile and give him a wide birth, shivering when his crooked smile catches them. 

“Interested in the Goblin King?” a voice asks behind Sarah, and she levitates off the earth for five seconds. 

“Who?!” she blurts out, and the cook laughs.

“The Goblin King!” She gestures at Jareth and chortles at Sarah’s wide eyes. “He’s not available, you know.” 

“N-no?” Sarah licks her lips to wet them, to help the words slide off and not catch on her secrets. 

The cook’s eyes dance.  “Oh yes. Everyone knows. Or well, we all know but pretend to not know. What sort of Goblin King falls for one of the runners he’s supposed to hassle?” 

There’s nowhere for Sarah to flee; the crevasse has no opening besides the one the Cook blocks. Even if she could flee, it would merely raise questions. The cook’s conversation from before rises in Sarah’s head and is quickly quashed. “Uh…him?” 

“Yep! After all the damn trouble he caused, the world turned around and bit him. Serves him right too. Terrible ass, that one.” 

“Should you really be talking so loudly about him?” Sarah swallows the words she wants to say. That Jareth was fair in his dealings with her, and that he didn’t deserve the world biting him. Even if he was angry. Maybe for taking Toby, but Jareth had been right when he pointed out that he was merely doing as Sarah asked.

The cook shrugs one meaty shoulder. “He doesn’t care about me. Soon as he realized I couldn’t help him, he moved on.” The cook’s eyes slide over to Sarah and she holds a finger to her lips. “I know you heard what I was tellin’ my wife earlier. I don’t know what’s going on with Manyfurs, but you keep an eye on her, you hear?” 

“E-eloise?” Sarah chokes and her eyes widen. “What about her?” 

The cook glances around and then leans in. “Why else would she wear that fur cloak if she wasn’t hiding. Look, I don’t know how she caught his attention, but she can’t deal with Jareth. His parents barely could. There’s a  _ reason _ they sent him off to be the Goblin King. You don’t take my shit; you wouldn’t take his either. Manyfurs is going to need your help if he tries to bring her back.” 

There’s a terrible hilarity in this misunderstanding. Somewhere. Sarah will find it momentarily. Hopefully. Probably not. This is terrible. “Of course,” Sarah replies. “I’d do anything to help my friends.” 

“Good.” The cook nods and straightens up. “Where is Manyfurs anyways?” 

“She went to go get something to drink. It’s been a long day.” 

“Smart. She’s got some brains after all.” The cook grins, and her gaze catches sight of Eloise and the princess waltzing. “Looks like Lirella’s finally fallen for someone. Maybe that’ll distract his royal assness.” 

Sarah commits the phrase ‘royal assness’ to memory. Maybe one day she’ll need it. “Do you think?” 

“Yeah. She’s never danced before. Hates it. So does Tellin. Jareth’s the only one with a musical bone in his body.” The cook grimaces, and then grins when she catches sight of Eloise and Lirella. “Catering the wedding will be a pain, but it has to be better than this damn festival.” 

“You think there’ll be a wedding?” 

“Oh yes. The royal family only falls in love once. They’re stupid romantics like that.” The cook rubs the back of her head. “It’s almost enough to make me feel sorry for Jareth, but not quite. I remember what he did to my damn oven when he was a child.” 

Sarah wants to know. Sarah doesn’t want to know. Instead, she nods. “I see.” 

The cook snorts. “No you don’t. You’re new here. Give it thirteen years, and then you’ll understand how Fae love.” 

It has been thirteen years, or nearly so. Tomorrow will be thirteen exact. But Sarah doesn’t say that aloud. “I’m sure I will. Won’t your wife be missing you by now?” 

A great shout of laughter rips out of the cook. “Probably. There are better ways to get rid of me than asking me that, missy.” 

“Oh I know. I was being polite. After all, I know to respect my elders.” Sarah grins and the cook shakes her head. 

“Sure you do. I remember what you said to me two days ago. I heard what you said under your breath. Oh to be young and stupid again.” 

“Certainly better than being old and stupid,” Sarah retorts. 

“Certainly! I wouldn’t be sitting in an alcove mooning over the Goblin King.” The cook nudges Sarah, and Sarah fwumps into the back wall of the alcove. 

“I’m not mooning!” Her voice creaks and cracks, and Sarah’s ears go red beneath her hair. “He wouldn’t like me anyways.” 

“That’s right.” The cook’s voice cuts deep into Sarah. “He may like that runner, but you’re no runner Sarah. You’re a fighter. Too feisty for him. “ 

The cook clasps Sarah’s shoulder and leaves with one last admonishment to be on time. Sarah nods and smiles, and hides the emptiness in her soul as her gaze returns to Jareth. The burnt peach smell rots in her nose and the cook’s words echo in her ears. He’s looking for a runner, but there’s no guarantee that it’s Sarah. There are so many runners and he was infuriated last night and…

Sarah shakes her head and returns to watching Jareth. What will be, will be.  Now is not the right time; she can tell by the prickling of peach scent in her nostrils. Tomorrow, Sarah decides. On the thirteenth anniversary of her run, she will speak with Jareth. That’s the time. 

She does not run into any goblins on the way back nor does anyone run into her. In fact, the halls are empty. Tomorrow, Sarah will learn it is because everyone is watching Lirella and Eloise dance. Tonight, Sarah is grateful. When Eloise returns, five minutes late and out of breath, Sarah is reading her copy of  _ Labyrinth _ . 

“Reading again?” Eloise laughs and spins, holding out her hands. Sarah passes her friend the book as she rises, circling around to begin untying Eloise’s laces. Eloise runs her fingers over the pages, reading. “But what no one knew is that the King of the Goblins had fallen in love with the girl, and had given her certain powers…. Oh this is so ironic, for that’s exactly what he did! Does he know about this book?” 

“Who?” Sarah pulls at the knot gently; the dancing drew it tight, and now Sarah works to coax it free.

“The Goblin King, of course! I’ve heard he’s terrifying, capable of great magic, but…” Eloise drops her voice. “Lirella says he’s a bit of a pill.” 

Sarah works the knot free and loosens the bodice. “A pill?” It’s not the word she would have chosen for Jareth. Royal assness suits him far better. 

“Yes! Lirella was telling me how heartbroken he is over this girl, and how she might be here. A human girl, here! Can you imagine?” 

“Not at all,” Sarah replies drily. 

Eloise shrugs out of her dress and pivots to grab it, shutting  _ Labyrinth  _ with a snap. The ivory gown disappears into the walnut, and Eloise struggles back into her work dress. Sarah focuses on plucking the flowers from Eloise’s hair. “I’d ask to have this to show Lirella, but…”

“No!” Sarah blanches at Eloise’s flinch. “No,” she repeats in a voice that’s far calmer than her thoughts. “My mother gave it to me. It’s… it’s all I have.” She doesn’t dare to mention that it’s all she has left of Jareth. That would be too much. 

“Oh.” 

Silence pervades until the pair move towards the door. “I’m sorry,” Eloise murmurs. “I understand what it’s like to lose a mother.” 

They stand at the threshold for a moment. Sarah lays a hand on Eloise’s shoulder. “It’s okay,” she says, and everything is back to normal. 

The last day of the festival is the busiest of all. Sarah keeps her head down; goblins crawl over every surface, through every room, eyes wide and piercing. It makes her glad she has to keep her hair pulled back sharply from her face. The severe look is a disguise on its own, and the goblins crawl past Sarah. They linger about Eloise until they sniff her. 

Then they laugh and run away to bother the cook. The screaming isn’t too bad, after a while. The cook holds her own; she boots a few of the smaller goblins and bellows at the larger ones, and in the end, the goblins leave the kitchens. 

They don’t leave the hallways. A sea of goblins flows over the floor and Eloise can’t run when she leaves in her dress of stars because of them. Sarah watches from the doorway and closes the door when she’s done. There’s no need to watch the dance tonight. The ending is coming; Sarah can feel it in her bones. After that, there will be a celebration, and...

Sarah doesn’t stay for celebrations. 

She drags her backpack out from beneath the bed. Pendants hang off it, for protection, for safety, for remembrance. There are many stitches on the outside now, scars from where the bag was damaged and repaired. Sarah runs her fingers over them; this small one was from Martain’s silver fox, and this larger one was from the dragon, and this one was from when she stumbled and fell down the hill, and--

The memories tumble on, tumble back to him. He’ll find her tonight. It is an ending, after all. An ending, a beginning, curling and coiling together until Sarah cannot tell where the ending ends, and the beginning begins. 

Her clothing goes in first, though she leaves her white shirt and vest out along with her last pair of jeans hidden beneath her pillow. She will change after Eloise comes back, and leave after Eloise leaves. That is the way of things, or at least the way Sarah does things. After the clothing goes the blanket, and after the blanket goes her travel pillow, and after that goes her books. A letter is pulled out of the bag’s depths, and Sarah places it under Eloise’s pillow. Her last words to a dear friend. She zips up the bag then, and pulls the compact out of the bag. It’s light, the case scratched enough that she can no longer read the engraving on the outside. Sarah passes the silver case back and forth, and flips the mirror open.

The  powder is long gone, but she doesn’t need the powder. All she needs is the mirror, which she brushes with her forefinger. “I need you,” she whispers, and the mirror ripples. 

“My lady!” Sir Didymus wrinkles his nose. Hoggle and Ludo are nowhere to be seen, but Ambrosius sleeps in the background, legs kicking as he dreams. “How do you fare?” 

“I’m well,” Sarah smiles and hides her weak knees. “How’re you guys?” 

“We fare well, though our lord is in a right mood. We can feel it even here.” Didymus pauses, his eyes narrowing knowingly. “Are you and he treating?” 

Sarah shakes her head, hair escaping the bun strand by strand. “Not yet.” 

“Hmmm.” Didymus flicks his ears and watches. “Please be careful, Sarah. I know not what is between you and my lord, but I fear what a poor outcome would do to you both.” 

“You and me both,” Sarah tries to smile. She fails miserably. Her dreams are so far away and yet so close, and yet… “Sir Didymus?” 

The knight perks up, drawn out of whatever reverie he fell into. “Yes?” 

“Wish me luck?” 

The knight laughs. “My lady, you do not need luck! You have all the power you need, right in here!” Sir Didymus thumps his chest. “Just remember… whatever plays out between you and his highness, we will still be your friends. Always.” 

Tears prick at Sarah’s eyes. “Thank you,” she whispers. A clock chimes overhead; a quarter until twelve o’clock. “I have to go now.” 

Sir Didymus nods. “I will speak with you tomorrow,” he promises, and his image fades. 

Sarah shuts the compact and hugs it to her chest for a moment. Then she tucks it into its pocket in her bag, and rises to her feet. Eloise should be back any moment. 

Five minutes pass. No Eloise.

Ten minutes pass. No Eloise.

Thirteen minutes pass, and Eloise charges through the door, wild eyed and panting. “The dance! It went long! And then that dreadful Goblin King accosted me….” 

Sarah throws the cloak over the dress. “You’ll have to change later! Don’t be late to the kitchens.” A flash of gold catches Sarah’s attention as she adjusts the cloaks hand. A ring Sarah has never seen before sits on Eloise’s pinky, all gentle woven gold surrounding a heart stone. 

“But Sarah, what about…” 

“I’ve got to attend to something. I had to wait for you but... “ Sarah winks at Eloise. “No need to worry about  me.” 

“But Sarah, he was asking about  _ you _ . The Goblin King. Well, not about you specifically, but if I knew a woman with black hair and silver green eyes, and that sounds like you!” 

Sarah’s breath catches and her chest aches. “Well,” she says, fighting to finish adjusting Eloise’s cloak of many furs. “I’ll handle him. You don’t want to get in his way.” 

“But Sarah, what will you do!? He’s the Goblin King! You’re just a.. Just a maid!” 

“Like you are?” Eloise recoils like she’s been slapped, and Sarah laughs. “I’ll be fine. But you better get to kitchens before the cook realizes you’re late.” 

Eloise whimpers and Sarah pushes her out the door. “Go,” Sarah commands, and Eloise obeys, casting glances back before she finally, finally runs. Her hand isn’t covered all the way; the gold ring on Eloise’s finger glints in the shadows. 

Sarah’s job is done.

The brown dress is cast aside. It has served its purpose and its purpose has come to an end. Putting on the white shirt and the vest with silver sworls feels like coming home, and Sarah frees her hair, shaking it loose until it tumbles over her shoulders like a river freed from a dam. It is time. Sarah is not ready, but it is time. 

The backpack weighs upon her like never before, her steps ring out death knells upon the pavement. Shadows billow at the edge of her vision, small giggles following her. The goblins do not show themselves. They don’t have to.

“Lady,” the voices chant, quietly at first and then growing. “The Lady is here.”

He will find her soon. 

Sarah walks out of the High King’s palace and into his gardens, leaving the shadows behind. The hedges grow in accordance with the gardener’s desires, and Sarah runs her hand over their leaves. She feels bad for these tamed things, forced into shapes geometrical and stale. The ones in the labyrinth chose to grow this way, could choose to move and shift and live, and Sarah yearns for them. The thirteen years are drawing to the end as the thirteenth hour closes, and Sarah wanders through the hedges that are so close to a labyrinth and yet are no labyrinth.  

She cannot see the castle anymore, for the hedges are too high and the path too narrow. By rights, Sarah ought to be panicking, for the path is barely large enough for her to stretch her arms out, for she is running another maze. But Sarah doesn’t panic. If anything, calmness courses through her. Everything is ending, even her dreams. 

This time, she will have to wake, one way or another. 

He finds her admiring the hedges with thirteen minutes until the thirteenth hour near the heart of the maze. Sarah doesn’t look at him. She doesn’t have to, to know he’s there. Ripe peaches follow him, a miasma that Sarah cannot escape. A mire that she doesn’t want to escape. Her eyes trace the leaves, light green, dark green, all the greens in between. “I’m rather sad for them,” she comments aloud, and she hears his boots take a step towards her. 

“Who?” his voice is as deep as she remembers, tempered by a kaleidoscope of emotions, almost too many to pick out. Some anger, some lust. Some joy, some exultation. Some terror, some love. They all mix together with the peach scent until Sarah is about drunk on his voice alone. 

“The hedges. They don’t move like yours do.” Sarah pulls her hand away and looks at Jareth. He stands five feet from her, dressed in the outfit that he wore when they spoke in the oubliette. All red leather and tight grey pants, the wind buffeting his hair as mismatched eyes catch hers. 

Sarah’s breath catches in her throat. “Hello,” she says, for her throat can let no other word pass. 

Jareth bows his head. “Hello.” His eyelids flutter, and it hits Sarah that he does not know what he wants either. They stare at each other, drink in each other, two old lovers meeting anew. His hands twitch, and betray that he wants to be angry, but cannot. Sarah’s hands smooth her vest and betray her nerves. 

It’s a fair trade, Sarah would say. “You found me.” 

“I did,” Jareth smirks at that. 

“It took you a while.” Sarah tilts her head and the smirk disappears. 

“Why didn’t you come back?” 

That… Sarah blinks. That is not the question Sarah expected. “Back where?” 

By the way his adam’s apple bobs, it is not the question Jareth meant to ask either. His nostrils flare. “To the Labyrinth.” 

“I did not think I would be welcome.” Sarah shifts the bag on her shoulder and refuses to avert her eyes when hurt floods his. “We did not part on the best of terms.”

“No,” Jareth agrees, and they stare at each other once more. 

Time clicks on, and Sarah rolls her eyes when the silence drags. “Well, would you like to sit somewhere?” 

Jareth lifts a winged eyebrow. 

“There has to be a bench somewhere, and I’d like to be comfortable while we talk.” Sarah shrugs, and steps closer. Jareth doesn’t step away, and Sarah takes it as a good sign. “You know this place better than I.” 

The second brow joins the first. “And you know that how?” 

“Someone here complained about you and what you did to their ovens. That means you’ve been here before, or at the very least you’ve terrorized the kitchens.” Jareth throws his head back and laughs and Sarah grins. This is better. She can work with laughter.

Sarah closes the gap while Jareth laughs, and it’s almost disappointing that he’s still taller than she is. But Sarah did not grow tall, and some things are immutable. The Goblin King is taller, Sarah is more clever. Thus it is that he looks down at her and his eyes soften and she looks up and says everything she cannot say with her mouth. 

Jareth must understand, for his face acquires a mirthful graveness, and he offers her his arm. Sarah slides her hand into the crook of his elbow and smiles up at him. “Precious, you always surprise me,” he says as they begin to walk. “But you are right. I do know a place we can sit.” 

He leads her to a small clearing, where a fountain burbles and a tree stands guard over a stone bench. They sit together, thigh pressed to thigh, and they stare at the castle, where a clock counts down the minutes to the thirteenth hour. “I’m sorry,” Sarah murmurs, watching as the clock hand moves towards the thirteen. “I could not have accepted what you offered then.” 

“But you could now?” 

Sarah licks her teeth. “I could,” she says carefully, picking out each syllable. “Depending on what you want.” 

“What about your brother?” Jareth’s face draws tight, and his long fingers clamp tightly into fists.

“I have not seen him in ten years.” Jareth starts beside her, and Sarah drifts on. “When I turned eighteen, everything felt off. My family paid no attention to me, and Toby didn’t need me any more. I took care of my mistake in wishing him away, and I left when it was time to go. There were others I was… that I missed.”

Sarah glances side long at Jareth, who stares at her. “Oh?” He manages to drawl the syllable, but he wouldn’t be Jareth otherwise. 

“Yes,” Sarah says firmly. “I didn’t come to you because I was not sure how you felt and I did not know the way. I figured… I figured that things would work out in time. That we would either meet or we would not, and…” Sarah bends her head forward, and her hair spills over her shoulders and hides her face.

Three minutes until the hour. Two. Jareth’s hand moves, slowly, and then tucks her hair behind an ear. “My… offer still stands, Sarah.” 

“I don’t want you to be a slave.” Jareth’s hand stiffens against her skin, and Sarah barrels on. “I want to be equals. I want to know you and be annoyed with you and love you, and at the end of it all, come back to you and know you’ll see me. I don’t want your worship, Jareth. I want you and your love and your anger, and I’ll give you me and my love and anger in return because that’s all I have in this world and the next. “ Sarah draws breath in, and Jareth places a finger over her lips. 

“I can work with this,” he whispers, and the clock starts to chime the hour. They turn to watch the clock, hands sliding down to entangle in their laps as the clock strikes thirteen. The last chord reverberates through the air, and Sarah turns to Jareth. 

“I thought there’d be a bit more fighting during this talk,” she informs him, and he laughs, mouth grinning crookedly. 

“I thought much the same. Especially after you ran away from my goblin that first night.” Jareth tilts his head. “Why did you run away?” 

“I had to help a friend out of a dress,” Sarah replies drily. Jareth’s face goes patronizing, and Sarah laughs. “I did! We had to be back in the kitchens by…” 

“So you were in the kitchens!” Jareth’s hands tighten on hers and he beams. “I knew it. I knew Holly was lying.” 

Sarah bursts out into laughter at the cook’s name. “She didn’t know! No idea I was there. She thought you were after Eloise!” 

“Who?” 

“My friend. The one who needed help with her dress.” Sarah pauses, and glances back at the castle. She remembers the ring and the lack of time to change. “The one who hid beneath the fur cloak.” 

Jareth wrinkles his nose. “I had no interest in that.” 

“She’s a friend Jareth.” 

“Her then. Regardless, I had no interest in her.” Jareth pauses. “Did Holly really…”

“Yes. She asked me to protect Eloise from you.” 

Jareth laughs, his eyes sliding shut. “I will never let you live this down! Protect that nobody from me, as if I wanted her...” 

“Thanks.” Sarah tightens her grip on Jareth’s too long fingers anyways. “Eloise is a friend, Jareth.” 

Jareth’s eyes snap open, and his face is suddenly far too close to Sarah’s. “I don’t want her though. I want…” 

Sarah leans forward, her eyes starting to slide shut, when the first firework goes off. They both jerk back and stare at the castle, where the sky burns with explosive after explosive. In normal circumstances, Sarah would be impressed by the display. At the moment, all it inspires is anger. 

“Of all the… couldn’t you wait  _ five _ minutes, sister?” The words are grumbled beneath Jareth’s breath, but Sarah hears them. 

“For what?” she asks. 

“To get that ruddy dancer to say yes. While I’m glad she’s found the chit, she  _ ruined my moment _ .” Jareth pouts and a burst of hysterical laughter rises in Sarah’s throat. 

“There’ll be other moments.” Sarah’s words manage to come out without sounding strangled, and she rises to her feet. She keeps her hand entwined with Jareth’s. “We should go offer our congratulations.” 

“Must we?” Jareth lets Sarah pull him up, though he pulls her close before she can move away. “She’s been insufferable the past few days. We ought to let her stew. Go back to the Labyrinth. Engage in some... “ 

Jareth’s eyes rove over Sarah, and Sarah goes bright red. “Need a bit more convincing, first.” 

He laughs low in his throat and brushes his hip against hers. “I think I could manage.” 

“Your sister first. Family first.” Sarah chokes, implications falling through her brain like shooting stars. “Plus, I think I have to offer congratulations to my friend. She was in a rush to get back to the kitchens before.” 

“Oh?” Jareth paces himself so Sarah doesn’t have to run, shortening his strides to match. If he happens to walk in such a way that they bump together with each step, why, he’d deny it. It strikes Sarah that she might have bitten off more than she can chew. 

“Well, my good friend was dancing every night with the princess.” Sarah side eyes Jareth as they move through the wider hedge paths. “And if you’re a king, why then, your sister would be a princess.” 

Jareth chuckles. “I think, precious, you have some stories to tell me.” 

“Maybe,” Sarah says, and they pause in the hedge maze. The fireworks ignite in the air above as they face each other. Sarah wiggles her arm free of Jareth’s grasp, trailing up his arm. “We have a lot to work on,” she whispers as her hand cradles his cheek. It’s sharp and thin, and could probably hurt her dreadfully if she’s not careful. But that was Jareth for you. 

His arm curls around her waist, drawing her close to his chest. Sarah hears his heart, the too fast pace jumping in his chest as his hand splays over the dip of her waistline. “All couples do,” he says, eyes glittering in the shadows. 

“We have time,” Sarah murmurs, and she leans up. 

His lips are warm and dry, his breath harsh against her own. Jareth doesn’t move, and then he’s kissing her back. “Plenty of time,” he says against her mouth, and he draws her close as the fireworks burst above to celebrate someone else’s engagement. Sarah knows they will fight and that they have too much to work out, but in this moment, that doesn’t matter. The pieces of her heart begin to mend in her chest as she kisses Jareth, heart skipping beats.

In this moment, alone in the hedge maze with Jareth, Sarah’s dreams are reality, 

Sarah finds she could not be happier.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in one day during Camp Nanowrimo. It was a rare day where everything just came flooding out and it was a lucky day that I could spend hours writing. I mean, I did stay up until 4am to do so, but. You know. Worth it. I'd appreciate any constructive criticism that you can give; I want to improve my writing.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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